


World Of Nothing: How Long Did It Stand?

by aliitvodeson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Drug Use, M/M, Non-con Blood Drinking, Stalking, Vampire AU, alternative universe, johniarty, non-explicit reference to violence and death, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humanity.<br/>It rolls off the man like waves hit the shore. Only it's more than that. It fills the room, like too much perfume or several days without showering will fill your nostrils. And for him it's so much worse because he catches all of it. Every drop of sweat, every heartbeat, every twitch of the tremor in his hand. Everything that makes him disgustingly human.<br/>Every. Last. Bit.<br/>He hates John Watson for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful Decline

**Author's Note:**

> Work and chapter titles taken from songs by the wonderful band Abney Park.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingers of rust gently intertwine  
> Lace the seams of sacrifice in beautiful decline  
> Catalysis of creations of all that was mankind  
> Pull our corruption towards nature,   
> the state that's predefined.

The modern era stunk. Literally. Worse than the Middle Ages, which was impressive because there had been times where you couldn't take a step in Europe without putting your foot in human waste. London before Bazalgette built his sewers? Pha! The Great Stench had nothing on the stink that flooded his nostrils now.  
It wasn't the people, for the megacity London had people in their millions and he'd withstood it. Nor was it the cars or trains or myriad other sources for the chemical smells that seemed to permeate the city to it's core.  
No, it was the deodorant.  
Yes, the deodorant. It may have blocked the smell of sweat from humanity's nose, but in his humble opinion, it only made the smell worse. His heightened senses were not fooled by the white powder. And the humans seemed to think that rubbing that stick against their armpits in the morning was enough to mask the fact that they'd had sex the night before but couldn't bother with a shower.  
Like so many other things about humanity, it disgusted James Moriarty.  
He sat, high above the pedestrian populace below, with his fingers curled into claws and his mouth in a snarl. Two nights of hunting and he hadn't found anyone tantalizing enough to eat. He needed to find someone good, quickly, or he'd simply pounce on the next human to cross his path and be stuck with the taste of foul blood in his mouth for the next month.  
Curse Sebastian for falling in love back in the thirties. Curse Irene for actually liking humanity once they'd invented short skirts. Curse Jeff and the whole Black Lotus clan for being not good enough to handle a world where they weren't monsters. His whole bloodline, a waste. Idiots, the lot of them. Content to feed on any old human and not understand that there was more out there.  
Humans who smelled like fine wine. Whose scent could drive you mad enough to run through midday sun. Humans whose existence had no pattern or formula except that they existed to be feed on. Like the most precious of jewels or finest fur coat. Their only worth was that they were so much better than their brethren.  
Humans like John Watson.  
He cursed and pulled out of his curled stance. As if he could do anything to John Watson. That tantalizing scent was barred from him. And yet... He raised his nose and sniffed deeply, as if he could catch that particular scent on the air simply by willing it to exist.  
A scent that was slightly metallic, with overtones of honey and blueberries while hints of cayenne pepper danced behind those oh so ordinary flavours. It was that spicy background that had first drawn him to John Watson, one whiff of the man as he stepped out of the pub enough to place the scent forever in Jim's mind. He would have taken him then and there had he not been kneeling over the body from his last feeding, blood still fresh on his fangs.  
So he was content to follow John home, back to a dingy flat in the outskirts of London, where the man fell promptly into a fitful sleep. If Jim had been a little hungrier, a little less controlled, he would have drunk from the man's veins then.  
He wished he had.  
Sunk his veins into the sleeping man's neck. No, he would have woken him first. Drunk in those few seconds of confusion, alarm, panic before he pin John's wrists above his head and dipped his head so he could slide his veins gracefully through the skin and drink that heavily drew that pulsed just beneath the skin. Drunk and suckled while the man squirmed beneath him, feeling the rattlingly pulse of his veins as Jim held him beneath him, pinned to the bed like a moth to a card. Only he was so much more beautiful than a moth, and so much more delicious.  
But he hadn't taken John then. Had waited until the man's nightmares had pulled him out of sleep and then disappeared out of the flat, leaving the window open to the breeze. He'll wait, Jim had told himself that night. It's not like anyone's going to take him from you.  
Only the next day, the very next bloody morning, someone did. The bastard hunter himself. Sherlock Holmes had waltzed right out of that lab, stealing Jim's human from under his very nose. Bold as brass, asking him to be a flatmate, dragging him halfway across London to look at a body, shooting one of Jim's own bloodlings cause it looked like Sherlock Bloody Holmes needed a bodyguard!  
London had paid for it that night, in a bloody trail of bodies that he left right across the city, pathetic human after pathetic human. Throats torn, arms ripped off, necks snapped. He didn't even bother drinking from any of them. Just killed and killed and killed.  
It was Sebastian who calmed him down. Who'd hunted down Sherlock's lair and eavesdropped on the pair. "He doesn't know, Boss. The hunter said he's a consulting detective. Nothing about being one of us. That we even exist."  
The idea that John could still be his was enough to break the blood rush. He hasn't claimed him. He's mine. And Jim knew, he knew, that he'd finish what he should have finish centuries ago and kill the Holmes brothers. Make them pay with their lives for thinking they could steal John from him.  
My pet. The words were a litany in his head as he drew up his plans. As he called Irene home from Russia. As he gave Sebastian the bomb targets. As he pressed the button to kill the Black Lotus. My human.  
Mine.


	2. The Wrong Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I run on the wrong side of life  
> I'm the one that you fear when you hold your wife  
> I run where the darker crowds run  
> On the rain-swept streets where black rain runs  
> I see things the darker kids see  
> Though you wouldn't believe all that's happened to me  
> I've been to the backside of Hell  
> And I've played with your fear and enjoyed it well

The smell of chlorine masked the smell of humans. Not enough to create the illusion that there had never been any here, but simply to hide the fact that they'd been there recently or in such great numbers as those that flocked to the public watering hole.  
"How do you stand it, Sherly? The smell of them. Like cattle." His tongue flicked out between his teeth, licking his lips in anticipation. "Worse. Sheep. Rats. No, rats are much better than they are. Bugs. They're bugs and you live among them."  
"You don't seem to mind John, as he's just as human as any of them." Sherlock's face would be an impossible mask to anyone else, but Jim simply sees it as a puzzle. Eyes dancing once to where Jim's hands rest on John's shaking shoulders, and then away. Mouth twitching when he says John's name.  
Jim leans down so that his mouth is next to John's ear. As he speaks in stage whisper, he ensures his fangs knock against John's skin, the man jerking in response. Oh, this is so much better than taking him back in the bedroom. "Did he never tell you, pet, what he really was? Why he doesn't eat, or have friends. Even his brother's ashamed of him. Oh. I forgot." His eyes dance up to Sherlock's face because John can't see either of them at this point so there's no point in looking at who he's speaking to. "That's not even his real brother. More like his keeper."  
Sherlock's face twists in anger, and disgust. "Don't you-"  
"Ah ah ah." Jim shakes his head when Sherlock goes to step forward. "Stay where you are and I won't hurt Johnny dearest." One of his hands slides closer to John's neck, nails just brushing his shivering skin.  
"You wouldn't." But Sherlock's stopped moving anyways, returning his errant foot to his side. "You want him and he's no good to you dead."  
"Oh, Sherlock, who said anything about killing him?" Jim laughs and backs away from John, breaking off all contact with the man. John sighs in relief, and Jim can see his shoulders slide forward as he allows himself to relax just that much. Blindfolded, gagged and tied to a chair, he doesn't realize that Jim's still right behind him, with a hand hovering just off of John's scalp. "I can hurt him oh so easily and you as well. Just. By." He punctuates his words until they're independent sentences. "Making. You. Watch."  
Sherlock's already pale face seems to drop several more shades. "What do you want, Moriarty? This isn't about the plans or Carel so want do you really want?"  
"You."  
Jim says the word flatly and enjoys the confusion that flashes across Sherlock's face. He doesn't even try to hide it this time, let's his eyes narrow and brows furrow, chin going up in that classic pose for the thinking genius.  
"Why would you want me?"  
Jim's mind flashes backwards, skipping over the memories until he finds the exact one he's looking for. Victorian dresses spinning out like ripples on a pond. Men with waistcoats and pocket watches that tick ever so loudly in his ears. A simpler time, when one's intentions could be sent through a bouquet and wealth displayed openly. A time when the police were both corrupt and inadept and vampires controlled the entire city, right down to who received inventions to Queen Victoria's coronation.  
Including, the Holmes brothers. Lord Mycroft Holmes and Master Sherlock Holmes. Two men marveled at for their mental process by the press, and disdained for their choice of profession by the vampiric community. The hunters Holmes. Family business and all that.  
It had been a good spot of fun to get both of them to attend the coronation. A little hint here, a little hint there and they came like trained dogs. They'd realized it as soon as they walked into the throne room, good as they were. The blindingly obvious nature of the trap. But that wasn't the point of the trap, oh no. That came later, when eldest Holmes watched three vampires bite into his younger brother's neck and drink. As he heard him scream for mercy, for his brother, for God above to save him. His face of pure anger as he strained against the vampires holding him down.  
And his panic when Jim put a halt to the boy's agony with a single wave of his hands. "You've done your very best, Lord Holmes, but I think we've run out of games to play."  
The poor man, Lord rest his soul, still had the strength left to glare at Jim. "Then kill us, and be done with it."  
The loud whimper from the youngest brother, the dark haired one Jim knew as Sherlock, brought a smirk to Jim's face as he knelt beside the near corpse. "Oh no. I've got something much better planned for your brother."  
A muffled groan from John brings Jim out of the memories. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, in the present. A second, louder and more irritated groan snaps everything back into place. "Sorry, John. Was I boring you? Just a little trip down memory lane."  
John's words are indistinct behind the cloth gag, even to Jim. "What was that love? Didn't quite catch it."  
He does love his dramatics. He cuts the strip of cloth with a slice of a nail, pulling it sharply out of John's mouth with a flick of his wrist. John's sputtering, eyes crinkling up briefly in pain and Sherlock opens his mouth before John silences him with a glare. "What," the blonde's voice is hoarse and Jim can taste the pain and panic and it's oh so perfect! "Do you mean, Mycroft isn't his brother?"  
And Jim leans close despite the panic growing on Sherlock's face, tasting the fear that rolls off John like a delicious wave of chocolate icing, letting his fangs drop down and pulling his lips up into an appropriately evil grin. "Because, dear Johnny, I killed Sherlock's brother centuries ago."  
The room is suddenly filled with the tangy bite of what he has identified as John's confusion scented. An added dash of spice, less sweetness. Not a bad scent, no, he might exploit it in the future. Feed him puzzles, play the riddle games. Watch his eyes dances as he tries to work it out.  
John, however, doesn't react in the visible way Jim expects. Though his body is unconsciously pouring out signals of confusion and distress, his hands remain steady and his face forward even as he opens his mouth to quip, "you're bloody insane."  
"Am I, Johnny?" Jim suddenly wishes that he hadn't chosen to make his big reveal such a public matter. He can't see John's face because he can not trust Sherlock enough to put his back to the man, even with the threat of harming John. "Are you sure?" He draws out the words, making them several times their normal length.  
"Look at him. Your precious Sherlock. How much do you really know about him?"  
Jim's voice drops so low he knows Sherlock will barely hear him. John will though, thanks to the lovely way human ears take vibrations and transform them to brain signals. He keeps his lips brushing against John's skin as he speaks, low and soft and enough like a lover that John's body has started reacting in ways that the man's mind doesn't like.  
"I turned him, centuries ago. Bit him and drained him and made his dear brother watch as poor Sherlock died in agony. Mycroft, well, I left that upstart Lord alive. So he'd know what I'd done. Taken from him his family, turned his brother into the very monster they had sworn to destroy."  
Jim's aware of John's sputters and Sherlock's protestations about disclosing the truth, but he's past caring. The show is about how he doesn't care. About the rules, about Sherlock, at this point even about John. He's just throwing everything out there and watching the pieces burn up in their return through the atmosphere.  
"Once Sherlock was turned, I let them both go. One human, and one...not so much. Mycroft couldn't bear to kill his favourite little brother, but he couldn't ignore what I had turned him into."  
John interrupts him, cutting in on what had been such a good monolog. Strangely enough, Jim doesn't mind that much. The whole point of this is to expose the dirty underside of Sherlock's life to John, and if the human's asking questions then he'll understand everything more. "Not human? He's human, there's nothing else!"  
"John. John, look at me. He's mad. Moriarty's mad."  
Jim springs at Sherlock, jumping forward and over John. He uses the man's shoulder as a springboard and then he's landing on the floor, feet perfectly flat, body balanced like he'd simply stepped off the curb instead of jumping over a chair and the man sitting in it. "Madness, is it, Sherlock?" Even though John can't see his face now, won't appreciate it, he let's his fangs drop out and eyes turn blood-red. The change comes like food colouring being dripped into a glass of water, spreading out through his pupils.  
"Stop this." Sherlock doesn't change. Jim knows he never does, ever when he feeds from those pathetic blood donor bags. That he pretends to be human. Tries to be. "He's not a part of this."  
"You mean Johnny? Oh, he's a huge part of this." Jim starts to pace. The energy rush the change brings up needs to go somewhere. He never gives Sherlock a straight run at John, keeps his back to the bond soldier, and unlike Sherlock, doesn't try to keep his voice down. "You took him from me. Picked him out when you knew I wanted him."  
"You didn't claim him. And you never will."  
"And if I don't? If he stays with you, how long do you think it will be until you give in? I know he smells as good to you as he does to me." John scent is changing, more confusion joining the already pleasant scent. Jim smiles to himself. Surely it's driving Sherlock mad as well. "Always doing experiments, making that flat of yours stink to high heaven. Trying to mask the human."  
"That's not why I-"  
Jim jumps forward. He doesn't know if Sherlock's simply letting him or if he's truly surprised the detective, but either way they end up crashing to the floor. John yells for Sherlock but neither of them acknowledge it. "Don't lie to me Sherlock. I know you want him."  
"Know his blood calls to you. That you want it. However good he smells like to me, he smells just as good to you. Maybe better. You haven't drunk pure for what, forty years now? It must be getting to you. Always denying what you are."  
Sherlock's pushing at his shoulders but Jim's always been stronger and Sherlock's out of practice. He pins Sherlock down, the tile cracking beneath their weight. He knows John's still yelling, for him to leave Sherlock alone or Sherlock to fight back properly, the usual. It doesn't matter right now, so he ignores John.  
"You're weak, hunter. Going drink from him sooner or later. I'm just saving you the trouble of dying. Your nephew won't blame you, you'll be free of that annoying scent, and I'll have the human I want."  
"You can't do this Jim. He's innocent. Please."  
Jim laughs. And laughs. The last time he laughed like this, he was pulling limbs from Chinese revolutionaries in the forties. "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Are you begging me?"  
There's a gulp from the detective. "Please. Don't do this."  
Jim tuts. "That's not enough."  
He gets a brief sight of Sherlock caught in panic and there's even a splash of red in those hazel eyes. "Then wha- ah. You want something in return."  
"Not just something. Someone."  
Dead silence in the pool room. Even John's stopped yelling. Jim feels Sherlock's lungs rise and fall beneath him. Habit, he thinks in disgust. They don't need to breath. The humans don't even notice when you forget to pretend, and that's even worse.  
"Me. You want me instead."  
"Sherlock, no."  
"John, shut up. You don't understand."  
"Damn right I don't understand. But you can't let that madman push you around."  
"I have to. Mycroft will explain."  
"No." Both men turn and stare at Jim. His face is blank as he slowly curls off Sherlock and gets gracefully to his feet. "You misunderstood me, Sherlock. I don't want you."  
"But, you said..." He says lying on the floor, even when Jim steps away.  
"I said I wanted someone in return for John Watson's freedom. I just never meant you."  
John gasps when he sees Jim's face. "Impos-" Jim cuts him off, taking the space between Sherlock and John's chair in one leap, faster than human eyes can see, so that what John's brain will process is Jim in one spot and then another, with one second to split the travel time.  
Jim's impressed that John doesn't scream. Better men have. Broken down when they see the fangs or the eyes, started crying when Jim reveals just how fast he can move. Begged for mercy. John just gapes at him, expression somewhere between terror and amazement.  
Oh, sweet perfection. John's scared as he should be, but he's not breaking. He's still gritting his teeth in hatred as Jim leans down close. He's made his choice well. It's a relief, that the first human he's chosen to claim isn't a waste of smell.  
"No, Jim."  
"You're getting it now, aren't you Sherlock?" Jim licks his lips, drinking in the change in smells as John shrinks back against the chair. "You know what I’m asking, and you know you can’t stop me. The question is, will you let me give you a trade for it, or do I get it for free.”  
“You can’t have him.”  
“Oh but I will.” John shivers as Jim runs his hand up his neck, tickles the back of his ear, threads his fingers through the short blond strands of hair. The man doesn’t say anything, just stares dead ahead and for a moment Jim’s worried that he’s broken him. But no. There’s a catch in his breathing when Jim runs his thumb over the curve of his ear, a jerk of his spine when the vampire slides closer, until Jim’s chest is brushing against John’s shoulder. “I will have him, and you can’t stop me. You’ve already tried, and you failed.”  
“I could take him myself.”  
“But you won’t.”  
“And why not?”  
“Because, Sherlock, if you don’t let me, I will burn you.” Sherlock’s face shows the shock Jim knows it will. There’s not a lot of ways to kill a vampire; fire is not one of them. For all those pitiful little humans tried to kill him back in the seventeenth century, fire does not work on any of their kind. He had a good little laugh, proving that to the King’s pet vampire hunters that no matter how much of a city you burned down, a vampire would stand among the ashes and laugh at you. Oh, those were the good old days. “I will burn the heart out of you.”  
John starts to struggle when Jim’s hand closes around his throat. The vampire squeezes, just enough to feel John’s windpipe beneath the skin, and the man stills. Jim notices with some pleasure that his hands are fists at his sides. Oh, the poor doctor. But he smells so good when he’s angry and Jim thinks that it will be fun to see how long he can keep this John around. Angry and fighting back. Giving in, like he is now with his unnaturally even breathing under Jim’s cold hand, but wishing that there’s a way he could actually fight. Jim can practically taste the murderous thoughts in John’s head.  
“Jim, don’t do this.”  
“Are you begging, Sherlock?” A dangerous smile curls over Jim’s mouth, pale lips pulling back to highlight his perfectly white fangs. “I do believe I’ve made you beg for John Watson’s life.”  
He can see the exact dynamics of Sherlock’s swallow, how he fights it and how much it hurts the man to admit it. “Yes. I am begging you.” His face is unnaturally still, as if he in physical simply saying the words. The smell that rolls off him is delicious. “Leave him be.”


	3. Stigmata Martyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such joy we dig his shallow grave,  
> anticipating pains to come.  
> We watch the wriggling dance of death,  
> and laugh light hearted at deaths fun.  
> We pounded out the joyous light.  
> Our saviors buried now for years.  
> A legend now of time gone by,  
> A martyr of forgotten tears.

“Jim, don’t do this.”  
“Are you begging, Sherlock?” A dangerous smile curls over Jim’s mouth, pale lips pulling back to highlight his perfectly white fangs. “I do believe I’ve made you beg for John Watson’s life.”  
He can see the exact dynamics of Sherlock’s swallow, how he fights it and how much it hurts the man to admit it. “Yes. I am begging you.” His face is unnaturally still, as if he in physical simply saying the words. The smell that rolls off him is delicious. “Leave him be.”  
Jim delays giving his answer for several seconds. He can see the hope springing up in Sherlock’s eyes, despite the vampire’s attempts to hold it down. That he would believe Jim, even if it’s just for the few seconds before Jim says, “no.”  
The terror in Sherlock’s eyes is real, oh so deliciously real. And John’s reaction is no less tasty. Jim wishes he could bottle the scents in the room at the moment; confusion and terror rolling together in one perfect combination as he lowers his head and bites. Sinks his fangs into John’s skin as the human squirms and Sherlock screams. He holds John down with both hands, one of his shoulder for actual strength and another on his chest for the dramatics. As John arches off his chair, mouth open in a silent cry, Jim appreciates the wonderful sensation of the man attempting to impale himself on Jim’s fangs. He’s barely started drinking, this isn’t about drinking at all, and he can already feel his blood lust rising. Like getting drunk is supposed to feel like.  
“NO!” Sherlock’s screaming at him, at John, at the universe. There’s no movement from him to take Jim down. Jim hadn’t been sure about that, if the threat of both of them dying would be enough to keep Sherlock in his place. A glance upwards reveals the detective looks to be in a state of shock more than he feels threatened by the laser pointers on his chest.  
Jim pulls his head away from John’s neck, his lips in a wide grin, fangs still out, dripping blood down his cheek. John’s shuddering under his hands, even as Jim pulls away, to the point where Jim can feel the man rocking at and forth in his seat, just a bunch of small twitches because Jim doesn’t let him move any further.  
“Delicious.”  
He wipes his lips on his jacket sleeve, still smiling. He looks at Sherlock, daring the detective to say anything. To react. To Jim’s disappointment, he doesn’t say anything. He seems frozen, as if he was a dvd and Jim had hit pause just after biting into John’s neck. Jim raises his eyebrows. Still no reaction. He chuckles. The man underneath him shudders, and begins to rock forward. Jim pushes down, a small hiss escape his lips despite his wish for Sherlock to be the first of them to say anything further.  
“What. The. Hell. Did. You. Do?”  
It’s John’s voice. Jim hadn’t expected that, had expected Sherlock to be the first of the pair to speak. It takes his a moment, less than a microsecond in human time but ages in terms of a vampire reacting, to process that dear Johnny, sweet Johnny, is talking to him. Asking him a question. And yes, it’s stupid, annoying, out of place and filled with so much anger that each word seems like it’s own sentence. But Johnny’s speaking to him.  
“Isn’t that obvious, Johnny?”  
“Shut up.”  
They speak nearly at the same time, Sherlock coming unglued and jerking forward.  
When Jim looks down at John, the human is looking back up at him, his lips open, staring in unhidden confusion at Jim. When their eyes met, John snaps his mouth shut, his gaze hardening. The transition from puppy dog cute to trained guard dog is so endearing, Jim fights the urge to kiss John. As it is, he can’t resist giving John’s shoulder and squeeze and flashing him a smile. “Don’t tell him what to do, Sherlock. He is, after all, a grown man.”  
John flinched back when Jim raised a hand, intending to caress the man’s face. “Don’t touch me.”  
“Oh?” Jim let his hand fall down to his side. “I suppose I better do as you ask, otherwise you’ll what?” Jim let the words sink into John’s brain, the man frowning slightly before Jim raised his hand once more and backhanded John, sending his head snapping backwards. “Don’t,” he said over John’s gasp of pain, “tell me what to do.”  
Jim sees the tackle coming, Sherlock’s shoulders tilting down and the man stepping forward. He turns to meet it, removing his hold on John to brace himself properly. Sherlock hits him chest to chest, sending Jim stumbling backwards. They do not fall, though, and Jim finds a grip on Sherlock’s jacket to send them both into a spin. He hits the ground with Sherlock on top of him, rolling until they are balanced on the edge of the pool, Sherlock on top but with Jim’s hands around his throat.  
“Sherlock!”  
Of course, Jim thinks when he looks over at John, they grappling for only a few seconds, the speed at which their bodies can process and move so much faster than human reaction time.  
Jim lets go, Sherlock pulls away and John gets up from his chair. He’s still shaking, paler than before, and looking at them with what turmoil. His hands, balled into fists, broadcast anger. His eyes though, his eyes as they slide over Sherlock’s thin from, are concerned. For Sherlock’s well being? For his sanity? Jim can’t tell which; possibly both. Yes, he discerns with a rapid glance at John’s leg. He’s mad but doesn’t want to risk things because Sherlock might get hurt. It’s endearing.  
“John, go, run!” Sherlock doesn’t have to shout the words to ensure that John hears them; the pool room is nearly dead silent but for John’s inhalations of air.  
John begins to step forward. In the time it takes Sherlock to tell him to run again, Jim has gotten to his feet and moved away from Sherlock. John’s attention turns to him. “You-”  
“Yes, me.”  
“What the hell did you do to me?”  
“I bit you.”  
“Yeah, I got that bit.” John rubs his hand against his neck, smearing the little bit of blood Jim’s bit had left behind. “What did you have done? Dental work must have cost a fortune.”  
“It’s not dental work.”  
“Like hell it wasn’t.”  
Swifter than he ever feels the need to be, Jim grabs John’s hand and presses it to his neck. Sherlock snarls and Jim ignores him. “Feel that?” He guides John’s fingers to the pulse point behind his ear. It’s the lack of feeling anything that makes John start to pay attention. Then he’s actively trying to find the pulse, and when he can’t, freaking out. Jim reads the shock on his face and starts to giggle.  
John jerks his fingers away from Jim’s skin. “What the bloody hell are you?”  
Jim only giggles louder.  
“I mean it? What are you?”  
Jim’s too far gone in the giggles, so Sherlock answers in his place. “He’s a vampire John.” John’s eyes flicker to his friend; the one who’s always so rational, so smart, the one who isn’t supposed to be going along with the delusions of a madman. That’s when Sherlock drops the even bigger bomb. “And so am I.”  
John looks as if he might faint. Jim thinks he will, for the longest moment. Somehow though, the doctor stays on his feet, and the blood returns to his face.  
“You’re a what?”  
“A vampire, John, surely your hearing hasn’t evaporated in the past three minutes.”  
“I think you’ve gone crazy in that time. You’re the one with the problem,not me.”  
“He’s not.” Jim smiles at John’s wide eyes, those fantastic baby blues eyes on him. He licks his teeth, watching as John’s pupils focus on his movement, pink tongue lingering on his fang. Oh and isn’t that perfect. John’s pupils are dilating, clear in their glazed over lust. “And now Johnny, boy, you’re one of the sanest humans in the whole wide world.”  
He steps forward and slides his hand over John’s arm, appreciating how John shivers underneath his touch but doesn’t pull away. “I’ll be seeing you around.” When Jim kisses the curve of John’s jaw, the body underneath his goes stiff, shuddering away from his touch. “Don’t be like that. It’s been fun!”  
And then he skips out of the pool, a smile on his lips and the taste of wonderful John Watson on his lips.


End file.
